


Achieving Immortality

by emynn



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Cancer Arc, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-01
Updated: 2015-03-01
Packaged: 2018-03-15 18:53:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3458048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emynn/pseuds/emynn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is, by far, Brian's favorite thing about Justin. It's also the reason he had to push him away. Starts immediately after the famous "eat some fucking chicken soup" scene in 4 x 09.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Achieving Immortality

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Britin 30 Day Challenge Prompt #5: “To be desired is perhaps the closest anybody in this life can reach to feeling immortal.” - John Berger

Brian spends most of his time waiting these days.

Waiting to hear the nurse chirp that the doctor is ready to see him.

Waiting for the nausea to pass. 

Waiting to feel like an actual fucking human being again.

But mostly he finds himself waiting for that look in Justin’s eyes to change, and the dread that comes with that nauseates him far more than the radiation treatments. 

He realizes he has nobody to blame for this but himself. He’d broken one of his cardinal rules, after all. What was it he had said to Justin all those years ago as they stood in Debbie’s backyard? _Don’t think that you’ve won. That it’s over._ It’s a standard operating procedure in the Kinney handbook, after all. But then what had he’d done? He’d grown complacent. He’d allowed himself to believe he deserved happiness, that he could actually _bring_ that kind of happiness to somebody else. He’d allowed himself to believe this all could last. And the minute he’d done that? 

_You’re dead._

But hell, what was he supposed to have done? From the very first night they’d met, Justin had looked at him in a way that nobody else ever had. It was more than mere lust and desire; it was lust and desire and adoration and _belief_ in something or someone that Brian couldn’t yet identify. Over the years it had evolved into something more. All those emotions are still there, but they’re deeper now, more profound, tinged also with pride and an uncannily intimate knowledge of Brian’s very being. _I’m onto you_ , that look seems to say. _I know everything about you and I love you more, not less, because of it._

It is, by far, Brian’s favorite thing about Justin.

It’s also why Brian had known immediately after receiving his diagnosis that he’d have to push Justin away. Because he could stand losing a ball, and he could stand getting zapped with a laser every day of the week and then puking his guts out. But he couldn’t stand seeing that look fade away and be replaced by pity, or resentment, or guilt. That would kill him faster than the cancer ever could have. It would be easier to just not see Justin’s face at all. Brian knew he’d be pissed, but he was equally certain that one day Justin would realize the kindness he had done him. 

Of course, Justin had never been one to do what he was told.

And so Brian gets back into bed, and he eats his fucking chicken soup, but still he waits.

He expects it to come that very afternoon, when he feels the chicken soup decide to make a triumphant return, and has to nearly sprint to the bathroom. When he’s done vomiting, he looks up at Justin, shoots him a patented Kinney death glare. “Is this what you wanted, Sunshine?” he asks.

But Justin only rolls his eyes, hands him a cool washcloth, and lightly squeezes his shoulder. “Don’t be such a drama queen,” he says. “It’ll be better next time.”

They get through the weekend okay. Brian expects Justin to be on his ass constantly, but mainly he just sits on one of those oversized pillows and works on pages for _Rage_ while Brian reviews the materials he’d had Theodore drop off. Occasionally he catches Justin looking up at him, but his expression is just the same as the one he’s always worn on the countless days they’d spent like these in the past. Sometimes Brian pretends he doesn’t notice, and simply looks back at his computer, trying to disguise his smile. But more often than not he gives a little tilt of his head, and Justin’s suddenly behind him, rubbing his shoulders and pressing soft kisses to his cheek and neck and being all in all a thoroughly distracting little shit.

At one point Justin says he needs to run to the store for some batteries and asks Brian if he wants to come along. Brian knows exactly what kind of game he’s playing; he can barely keep his eyes open, and he knows Justin’s noticed. He’s tempted to tell Justin he’s coming just to spite him, but his legs feel like lead and he shakes his head. Justin stands up, pulls off the blanket he’s had covering around his shoulders all afternoon, and drops it on the couch. The second the door’s shut, Brian forces himself to move to the couch, feeling instant relief the second his body hits the cushions. He wraps himself in the blanket and wonders if this had been Justin’s plan all along, wonders if he’d even been cold at all, or if he’d simply known Brian would need a nap and wanted to make sure he was comfortable without going full Florence Nightingale on him. Brian wants to hate him for it, but instead he only feels warmth … although that could be due to the blanket.

Brian wakes to the sound of Justin putting away the groceries. He can just make out eggs and milk and cheese, carrots and some leafy greens, bags of nuts and ground flax seed, some kind of meat and several avocadoes. It’s as if Justin found the list his doctor gave him of all the foods he should eat throughout his radiation therapy. Brian snorts. Of _course_ that’s what Justin fucking did.

Once he’s done filling up Brian’s fridge with enough food to feed a small army, Justin sits on the arm of the couch, then somehow manages to slide in so Brian’s head’s resting on his lap. “ _Aladdin’s_ on,” he says, as though that explains everything.

“Why the fuck are we watching that?” Brian asks.

“The animation’s unreal,” Justin says. “Besides, you loved _The Lion King_.”

“Because Scar’s a surprisingly sexy motherfucker for a lion.”

Justin laughs. “Then something tells me you’ll love Jafar.”

Brian fights to keep his eyes open. Justin’s looking down at him, a fond smile on his face as he brushes back Brian’s hair, and Brian knows he has to memorize this moment, just in case it slips away, like he still suspects it might. But in the end he knows it’s a losing battle, and he settles for turning his head so his face is pressed against Justin’s belly. “Hakuna matata,” he whispers, and drifts off to sleep.

Of course, the peace doesn’t last. Brian wakes up early on Monday morning and sees Justin already making scrambled eggs in the kitchen, even though he knows for a _fact_ he doesn’t have class till two and he never works Mondays at the Diner. “What are you doing up?” Brian demands, grabbing a water from the fridge. 

“Your appointment’s at eight, right?” Justin asks, as casually as he might ask what time they were planning on going to Babylon. “Figured we could have breakfast before going.”

“I don’t want any fucking eggs,” Brian says. “And you’re not coming to my appointment.”

“Right, because driving home after getting your ball zapped is _so_ much preferable to being in my presence for another hour and letting me give you a ride,” Justin says, scooping the eggs out onto a plate.

“You can’t even drive stick,” Brian says. “How exactly do you think you’re going to drive the Corvette?”

Justin outright laughs at that. “My dad may be an asshole, but he’s an asshole who made sure I knew how to drive stick. Any other objections?”

Brian has one, one very real one, but it’s impossible to say out loud without sound fucking pathetic. He can feel nausea rising in his belly, and it has nothing to do with the cancer. “Why would you even want to come?” he asks. “You’d be stuck sitting in the waiting room, and let me tell you, Sunshine, the magazine offerings are more _Good Housekeeping_ and less _Playguy_.”

Justin sets the plate down in front of Brian and goes to the silverware drawer to grab a fork. “Would you read _Good Housekeeping_ if it were me?”

Memories of watching Justin toss and turn in a hospital bed flash through Brian’s mind. He looks down at the eggs to distract himself from the thoughts plaguing his head. They’re slightly runny, just the way he likes them, with cheese and spinach and ground flaxseed. He’ll likely puke it all up in three hours or less.

“First time you stall out, you’re done,” Brian says. “And I drive there.”

Justin laughs and his smile spreads across his entire face. There’s amusement there, and plenty of affection, as well as immense self-satisfaction that, yet again, he’s managed to figure out exactly how to get Brian to acquiesce, and, in the process, received a reminder of just how deeply he cares for him. It’s the same smile he’s given to Brian thousands of times before, and the familiarity of it is enough to settle Brian’s stomach long enough to swallow down some of the eggs. 

The appointment’s hell, of course, but it’s over quickly. Brian walks back out to the waiting room and clears his throat. He’s used to moving as quickly as possible as his freshly-zapped testical would allow through this room at the end of the visit, not caring to be reminded of the fact that there was nobody waiting for him, even if it was by his own doing, even if he never wanted it anyway. 

Justin glances up from the magazine he’s reading. It’s _Good Housekeeping_ , with Jennifer Garner on the cover, and Justin looks like he’s enjoying it way too much. He stands up and shows Brian one of headlines on the cover: _Look Better Now Than You Did 10 Years Ago_. “I took notes,” he says, grinning. “Can’t have you losing interest in me once I enter my late twenties. You know. The age you were when we first met.”

Brian laughs, which is a mistake. He winces a bit and makes sure he turns away so Justin doesn’t see his face, even though he knows it’s a wasted effort. Of course Justin notices. He notices everything. It’s one of his best and most irritating qualities.

“Come on,” Justin says. “Let’s go home.”

Brian’s afraid Justin’s going to grab hold of his arm like he were some grandpa in a fucking nursing home, carefully lead him out to the parking lot and make sure he doesn’t trip over any pebbles. But instead he simply sidles up against him, a gesture Brian’s learned over the years means he’s waiting for Brian to wrap his arm over his shoulders and tug him close. Brian does so immediately, and if his arm’s a little shaky when he lifts it, Justin doesn’t say anything. It can’t be comfortable for him; Brian’s moving slowly, and he’s leaning heavily on Justin as they make their way to the car. But Justin only slides his hand into the back pocket of Brian’s jeans, just like he always does, as if they’re simply running typical daily errands and not coming back from the radiation oncologist.

When they reach the Corvette, Brian’s again faced with a dilemma. He’s tired, so fucking tired, and he wants nothing more than to collapse in the car and close his eyes. But the very thought of having to lift his arm off Justin’s shoulders to open the door drains him of energy. From bench pressing 275 to unable to unable to open a car door, all in less than a month. Fucking pathetic. He draws a deep breath, steels himself.

“Oh, hang on,” Justin says. He quickly opens the door and picks up an issue of _Art World_ lying on the passenger’s seat. “I _knew_ I brought this with me.”

And Brian knows Justin left it behind intentionally, knows he chose _Good Housekeeping_ over _Art World_ so he’d have a ready-made excuse to hold the door open for him without Brian snapping his head off. Frowning, he allows Justin to hold his arm as he lowers himself into the seat. But when Justin goes to close the door, he grabs hold of his hand. 

“Wait,” Brian says. 

Justin’s shoulders stiffen slightly, and Brian knows he’s bracing himself, ready to hear Brian insist he feels fine, that he’ll drive them home, and that’s all there is to be said. Brian squeezes his hand, and some of the tension eases out of him, replaced with a somewhat confused furrowed brow.

“I --”

And here Brian’s lost. Where to even begin? Countless phrases pile high in his head, each of them seeming as unworthy and insignificant as the last.

_I’m glad you came._

_I’m glad you came back._

_It’s not as bad with you here._

_It’s always better with you here._

_Thank you, thank you, **thank you**_.

“Brian?”

Brian clears his throat. “You can come to my next appointment. If you want.”

Justin smiles and leans down to kiss Brian softly on the mouth. “I’ll see if I can fit you into my busy schedule,” he says, and closes the door.

By the time Justin’s in the driver’s seat, Brian’s already having second thoughts. Justin may have been joking, but he does have his own life to live. He’s just started back at school with a rigorous courseload, and he’s still working at the Diner. Not to mention he has friends of his own, and a mother and sister to see. The last thing he needs to do is pencil in regular radiation appointments because Brian’s grown soft in his dotage and enjoys having a smiling face -- well, one particular smiling face -- to greet him in the waiting room. And the last thing Brian wants is to become an obligation to Justin, because obligation is one step away from resentment, and everybody knows where that leads.

“Justin,” he starts, a list of caveats and disclaimers poised on his tongue.

“Shut up,” Justin says, sticking the key in the ignition. “I’m coming with you.”

“You don’t have to,” Brian says. “It’s your call.”

“I told you on our first night together,” Justin says, turning to face him. “I said ‘I’m going with him.’ I meant it then. And I mean it even more now. No matter what or where or how fucking difficult you’re being. Now, do you have anything else to say, or are you going to shut up and let me drive?”

Brian musters all his energy and leans over, reaching for Justin. Mercifully, Justin gets the hint and meets him halfway, pressing his lips against his in a brief but tender kiss, which quickly turns into two, and then four and seven and then so many that Brian loses count. There’s nothing heated in the kisses, just light, fleeting brushings of the lips, quiet affirmations in the way they’d always communicated best. But despite how incredible it feels to have Justin holding him, kissing him, promising to be there for him, Brian wonders if once again he’s growing dangerously close to becoming complacent once more. If this is too much like declaring a preemptive victory, and it’ll be taken from him again in an even more soul-shattering fashion than the last time.

But then Justin pulls away and Brian sees that gaze directed at him, a look of utter adoration and pride running over a pulsating current of desire, a look that says he knows everything about him and loves him even more because of it, a look that says he believes in Brian and what they have and that it’s going to last. Brian sees that expression and he knows he’s not dead yet, and so long as Justin keeps looking at him that way, he never will be.

And given how Justin has seen him puking his guts out, has sat through his tantrums and petty comments, has promised to always be there even after Brian fucking threw him and told him he never wanted to see him again, and he’s _still_ giving Brian that same look, there’s a small part of Brian that’s starting to believe he might just live for-fucking-ever. 

_Suck on that, cancer._

Brian’s not naive enough to think the battle’s over. He still has at least another month of treatments, and who knows how long before Justin wakes up and realizes he’s saddled himself with somebody completely unworthy of being a recipient of such a loaded look. 

But this time, he’s not going down without a fight.


End file.
